


Fearful of the Night

by Cloudnine101



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, M/M, Magic, Romance, Stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 05:08:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3678804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudnine101/pseuds/Cloudnine101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'When Enjolras kisses, he tastes of stardust.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fearful of the Night

_Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;_

_I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night._

_\- From_ The Old Astronomer to His Pupil _, by Sarah Williams_

When Enjolras kisses, he tastes of stardust.

It's the ringing in Grantaire's ears; the hands, brushing over his skin, becoming wilder with every passing moment.

"I love you," Grantaire says, breathing it into pale skin, "God, I love you, I love you, I love you-"

"Grantaire," comes the voice, fluttering against his hair, making it rustle, "Grantaire-"

But then their lips are locking together, and there's warmth filling everything, and Grantaire doesn't let him talk again.

·

Afterwards, they lie together. Grantaire stares at the painted ceiling, words congealing in his throat; spent, his body hums.

Enjolras lies beside him, golden curls spanning out over the pillows. If Grantaire turned his head, he could see his face. He doesn't have to, of course. He knows it by heart.

Neither one of them speak.

·

The next day, they riot.

They're running through the city, flags waving behind them. Somebody - probably Joly - thought it would be a good idea to bring along guns; so now they're running, and oxygen's in painfully short supply, and Grantaire can't breathe.

A bullet whistles past, and embeds itself in the wall. There's the sound of breaking glass - and then there's a hand, closing around his arm, and pulling him away. Grantaire stumbles, over his own feet, and yells something he can't identify-

A hand clamps down, over his mouth.

"Don't move," Enjolras says, eyes narrowed, "we haven't got long."

"What-"

Enjolras takes his palm away, and leans in close, and takes hold of Grantaire's face, and presses their lips together. Grantaire sways; grabs hold of firm lapels, and clutches the fabric, and doesn't let go. Enjolras is burning, against him - growing hotter and hotter and hotter, until Grantaire's gasping, sweat rolling down the back of his neck, as he rocks closer, making their hips brush together.

Enjolras's fingers dig into his belt loops, playing across his skin, hard and heady; and Grantaire moans, pathetically, against him, pressing closer, brushing fingertips against his cheek-

And then the warmth is gone, and Enjolras is staring at him - as though he's a bomb, and liable to blow.

"Enjolras," Grantaire says - but the man's turning on his heel, and spinning away, and Grantaire is left alone, with the smell of cordite in his nostrils, and the midday sun overhead.

His flesh stings.

·

Back at the Musain, Grantaire goes to the bar, and downs the first drink he can find. Courfeyrac takes the seat beside him, one eyebrow raised.

"What happened?" Shrugging, Grantaire picks up the bottle, and takes a swig. The liquid cools his throat. Across the table, Courfeyrac frowns. "You burned yourself?"

Grantaire looks up; shakes his head. "No. Why?"

Taking a sip of his own beer, Courfreyac points towards the table-top. Grantaire glances downwards.

His palm is a mass of seething red.

" _No_ ," Grantaire says, staggers to his feet, and flees.

·

The water singes; he continues to splash, even as it scrapes the stubble on his chin, stripping away the layers of grime and heat. Grantaire sags over the sink. In the mirror, a man stares back at him. His eyes are dark.

"You left, earlier." Grantaire flies around. Enjolras's back is turned towards him; he pulls the door shut. With a click, it locks. "Why did you go?"

Grantaire tries for a smile. It's limp. His pulse thunders. "I, err...I hurt myself." Displaying his hand, Grantaire chuckles, sparks fuzzing through his veins. "Stupid."

Enjolras peers at him, face perfectly flat. Grantaire resists the urge to swallow, as he approaches; slowly, carefully, quietly. As Enjolras's fingers encase his own, Grantaire can't stifle his gulp. Enjolras's eyes are incredibly, impossibly blue. In the flickering light, they seem to glow. Grantaire's breath catches.

Enjolras steps away. Grantaire looks at his palm; looks back up.

The skin is clear.

"What are you?"

Enjolras's lips quirk, slightly.

"Nothing," he says. "Nothing important, at least."

·

They make love; skin brushing against skin, rolling and arching, a flurry of ashes ans sparks.

"What," Grantaire pants, clutching at stripped-back sheets, "do you want from me?"

Enjolras does not reply.

·

Grantaire sits at the back of the room, and drinks. Behind him, the window is cracked open. Sounds trickle in, from the streets beyond; the honking of car horns, the chatter of voices, the fluttering of wings. Somewhere, someone curses, loudly.

As Enjolras speaks, his companions clustered around him, gesturing wildly, he glows.

Grantaire can't shift his gaze away. 

·

It is a dark night. Grantaire sits on the step, feet meeting pavement, glass cold in his pulpy fist. Before him, a car goes past, lights sweeping the street's surface.

The figure takes a seat, beside him. Grantaire raises the bottle to his lips. It's empty. Frowning, he tips it upside down. The last few droplets run down the road; pooling in the gutter, staining his fingernails brown.

"You never listen to me." Enjolras's head is tilted upwards. The shadows pool below his cheekbones, merging his chin with his neck. "You watch, but you never listen."

In Grantaire's stomach, a stone settles. "What is there for me to hear?" Enjolras's mouth grows taut. The sky rumbles. "It's not as though I could understand it, anyway." The words slip out, without his permission. Grantaire looks away, towards the ground.

To his left, there's movement - a shuffling. "Is that honestly what you believe?"

Grantaire nudges a stone, with his foot. A raindrop plops onto it; and then another, and another, rolling down the bottle, skimming along his cheeks. "Why wouldn't I?"

There's a short, sharp snort. It sounds like, in another life, it could have been a laugh.

"Look up." 

Grantaire does.

·

The sky is alive.

There are clouds; grey and purple tinged, crackling with lightning and strength and power. Their edges are made of burnished gold; they lock together, in a maelstrom of fire, spinning and churning and _bright_ \- so bright. 

Through them, and the rain dropping over his vision, Grantaire can make out the outlines of stars.

Fingers lock with his own, overhung with electricity. 

Grantaire permits it.

·

On the stoop beside him, Enjolras shines.


End file.
